May 7

Each day blurs into the next.  I live for the brief moments I have away from my children, in which no one is demanding anything of me and I am alone.

At the same time, I am so much enjoying Margaret.  I have been delighted by both of my children at one.  One-year-olds are congenitally charming, and they adore you, and it is fun to watch them learn to express their small, concrete thoughts.

William, on the other hand, is a chore.  He holds all of us hostage with his moods and endless demands.  I hate the voice he uses -stretched thin, panicked- when, say, we are late bringing his water cup to the table.  I hate being screamed at and hit, even if the hitting is not in earnest.  I hate that I don't trust him with Margaret.  I hate that it is a struggle simply to put on clothes or shoes, and that we can't walk down a sidewalk without screaming because one of us gets ahead of him slightly, or behind him, or, or, or..... I feel abused and furious.

This has built slowly.  I used to be able to meet him with compassion and quality parenting. But lately I am just done.  I am sick of having to tiptoe around him.  Nothing works.  I am coming to where I dislike my own child, and that is sad.  I adored him for those four easy years we had, but since then he has been much tougher, and I think now it is just too much for me day in day out with no break, ever.

If camp starts up in summer I will probably send him, even though I will be anxious/ guilty about it, simply for my sanity.